And It Feels Like Dying
by Butterfly Heart
Summary: Clint knows that he doesn't need to see her to know who she is./ Hawkeye/Black Widow alias Clint/Natasha


Another Clint/Natasha. Because I feel like it, because I love those two and because they can never get enough love. Also, my first attempt at writing heterosexual smut. I don't know what that tells about me, but anyways, it was fun!  
Pairing: Clint/Natasha  
Warning: Sex. Sexsexsex. Blindfolds!  
Enjoy! :)

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_**And It Feels Like Dying**_

Clint hears Natasha shift beside him and turns his head where he thinks she is. He still isn't sure if it really was a good idea to allow Natasha to blindfold him but then he thinks that she could kill him with less effort if she wanted to. Still, he opens his mouth and asks, "So, blindfolds? Is that a new method to kill an innocent man in Russia?"

"You're hardly innocent," Natasha says. He can imagine a wry smile playing around her lips and hears the faint rustling of clothes and feels his pulse quicken. "Now shut up."

"If I don't, will you gag me?" He asks and winces a bit because it sounds almost hopeful. Natasha laughs, a low and dry tone; Clint swears there are goosebumps on his forearms and he swallows, licks his lips to keep them from drying and makes it even worse by doing so. Nobody laughs like Natasha.

He honestly thinks that she does it not often enough.

"Nat," he says after a moment; the rustling stops. He thinks he can hear their mingled breathing in the room. "Can I touch you?"

"You're blindfolded, not bound, Clint," She says and he doesn't bother with explaining that unbound hands mean nothing when it comes to her, that he always feels a bit bound when she is around, that he is never sure when she will let him touch her. He swallows all these thoughts and runs a hand along the sheets, searching for her, secretly a bit glad when she takes his hands and-oh, is that her hip? Her skin is soft and smooth just like water, only rippled by some scars, evidence of her brave heart. He knows these scars almost as well as he knows his own; he knows how they look, white and woven into her delicate flesh. It is almost a miracle to have them underneath his fingertips again, really. He will not complain.

It is like flying, really. Clint remembers the feeling of twisting and turning high above the others from his time in the circus well. He remembers the flutter in his stomach, the way his muscles trembled and sang, because it is the same with Nat, always with Nat. Her breath comes faster when he glides along her curves- beautiful curves; Natasha has the figure of the goddess she is in his eyes-, up, up, until his fingertips touch her lovely breasts and-is that silk? He gives it a try, touches the fabric until she shifts, long legs falling apart until one of them rests on each of his sides. He feels the well-defined muscles in her legs and sighs because it feels more than good, feels amazing to have her so close, one of her hands dancing along his chest, slightly grazing his skin with her long fingernails.

(Clint always wonders how she manages to not break them.)

"I thought you were undressing," He says. Her breath ghosts along his ear; he shudders and thinks for a fleeting moment that he shouldn't succumb so easily to her charms. She truly is a black widow.

"I thought you maybe want to finish the job yourself," She replies smoothly; there is silent laughter in her voice. He knows because he listens closely- always, always when it comes to Natasha- and because Natasha is not always as good in hiding her emotion as she wants to be, at least not for him. His fingers find the way to her back without any problem, they only fumble a bit with her bra because God damn it, he's practically blind and she knows just too well. He wonders how many people have heard the little hitch that always escapes her when he touches her breasts for the first time, marvelling their warm weight and supple feeling. Nat has gorgeous breasts and they are quite sensitive when touched in the right way; she sighs, a long, very feminine tone that goes straight to his crotch, when he thumbs one of her nipples, circling them with slow movements. When she leans forward, hands stemmed against the pillow left and right from his head to support herself, he is all too happy to close his lips around the same nipple and suck. The throaty moan escaping her is worth it all and he not so subtly shifts his hips to bring them closer together, groaning when he feels the heat between her legs.

"How about a kiss, Nat," He growls and adds, "How about a kiss _right now_?"

Luckily, Natasha doesn't seem to be in the mood to tease. He has always liked kissing her; Natasha is fierce and demanding, seldom tender, and she kisses like she fights. He wishes he could see her; she never liked being watched during and after sex, that's why he likes it so much. Clint is not an idiot; he knows she knows that she is not as good as keeping up the mask when he touches her like he touches her right now. It is not unlikely that this is one of the reasons she likes to blindfold him so much; Natasha is a woman of control.

(And really, he has seen her insecure and it was not nice, so he lets her, because Natasha is never prettier than when she is happy.)

She curses softly in Russian when he wriggles her out of those damn panties- he's pretty sure they are made out of silk, but that doesn't make them any less annoying- and slips two fingers into her, grinning when he feels how excited she is. She slaps him; he yelps a bit to his embarrassment and tries not to jerk away, instead he takes revenge by lightly thumbing her clit and making her writhe and moan. He kisses her again because even though he cannot see her, he knows she is beautiful and she is utterly, completely, tragically enchanting. He kisses her and imagines the fiery red of her hair, the blood underneath her skin, warming her until she looses the beauty of a statue she normally wields, making her even more beautiful, a heated goddess all bright, flaming colors bucking against his fingers, her own gripping the cushion beneath his head with expected fierceness.

(He loves it. He is not sure he will ever love something else so much.)

When she finally lowers down on him, their hips connect as if they were never separated. He slides one of his hands along her thigh, stroking her smooth skin and mapping out her hipbone jutting out slightly. She surprises him a bit when she leans down, soft, fiery strands of silky, long hair brushing his cheek like a veil-

(And for a moment he thinks, _what about marrying me, Nat, what would you say about that_, but the words never leave the tip of his tongue and maybe it's the best for both of them.)

-and presses her full lips against his own, opening them and allowing him to kiss her again; she tastes like toothpaste and he smiles, feeling her own smile tugging at the corners of her mouth during their kiss. They move slowly and deliberately and Clint imagines her behind his blindfold, the way she holds herself, the way the slight tremor in her thigh _looks_ like, the way she throws back her hair and exposes her long neck and she is beautiful, so beautiful, he never wants this to-

He could always-

And maybe he has loved her since the first time he has seen her, but in the end, nothing of to matters, nothing they did to hurt each other matters, nothing they will do to hurt each other matters because they are here _now _and-

Clint knows that he doesn't need to see her to know who she is.


End file.
